


Sure Thing

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Autofellatio, Consensual Underage Sex, Dean is In Over His Head, Indiana Jones References, M/M, Obsessive Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 21:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5758888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As always, Sam exceeds his big brother's expectations. (Sam is 16. Dean is 20.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sure Thing

**Author's Note:**

> I saw [this](http://hellhoundsprey.tumblr.com/post/137582701544) and knew what I had to do.  
> (This piece is not beta'ed. All mistakes are my own.)

About a pound of popcorn in that mouth and Dean can still make out his little brother's, "Sure."

A turn away from the screen (Indi And The Temple Of Doom is on, so it's twice of an honor) with his deadliest, most unbelieving glare. What Sam has in response though is nothing more than further chewing.

"No way," Dean states.

Shrug. More popcorn.

Dean tries a sneer, rolls his shoulder, licks his lip. There might be sweat starting to build in various places that make him itch. One of Sam's specialties - making Dean itch. "No freakin' way, Sam."

"Why? Doesn't sound _that_ hard."

A burst of laughter. Yeah. Definitely sweat. "How'd you know?" Then - realization. Horror. Heartache. "Don't tell me you've tried it." _Without me_ , Dean doesn't need to say.

"What? No. Urgh." That last part comes almost nauseated along with a quick frown, wide eyes. Sam managed to get a tan and June's barely even started. Soccer training is doing him all kinds of well. That slight flush of pink is still visible (always visible for Dean's eyes). Betrayed, Sam rumbles his, "Why would I need to?"

More licking of lips. Good thing Sam is watching now, but that's not the first reason for Dean to keep on doing it. The real problem is the unhealthy amount of drool shooting over Dean's tongue, the now too obvious contrast to too dry lips. Shit. When jokes turn serious, it isn't usually a good thing. But now? Fuck. "So you think you could do it?"

Little-brother-blink, wet and beaming for Dean. Something like arousal and fear and teenage-boyed vanity rushes over that face and Dean loves every nanosecond of it. God knows they grew up into the dare game just like into the matter of fact that "normal" would never be a word for them, but oh, the energy overtaking Sam is so delicious once Dean is so very eager like right now. Dean's little boy has been growing lately, doesn't like to be called "Sammy" anymore, makes saying "no" to Dad and "yes" to pretty little girls his new hobby (with Dean, he doesn't need to even open his mouth) and tries to be tough, mature, cool. Like Dean.

So little Sammy pouts his lips, cocks his eyebrows as he nips his, "Sure," again, unfolds his legs, leans back into the couch. He is lowering his eyelids to the point of bedroom-height, right around where his lashes look the prettiest (Dean should've never said a word), trained on Dean because there is nobody else in the whole world he loves proving wrong more than his big brother.

And Dean knows. 'Course he knows. Knows Sammy in and out (pretty and ugly), always has. Half of Dean's smirk comes from the hothotterhottest rush of _maybe it's the very same the other way around, too_ , the other from sheer, ridiculous anticipation. "No. Way. Sammy."

"Here?" offers Sam, already shifting to get his sweatpants down, eyes still lowered, nose a little upturned. Dean's little prince. Dean's little prince reeks of sweetest sweat though, the kind Dean's attention brings with itself.

It's good. So so so so good. Dean gets a hold of a wrist, almost knocks the bowl of popcorn over with his knee while humming, "What do I get in case you fail?" He sets the bowl aside.

Sam's glare hardens. It's on. "I won't."

"Free choice it is."

"Fuck you."

"We'll see about that."

A punch to Dean's shoulder makes Dean laugh. Sam gets to his feet and starts stretching in earnest. Well, as earnest as one is able to at ass-o-clock at night. It's a Friday. Fridays are always good for sick, wonderful things. And Indiana Jones. But it's always a good time for that if one asks Dean.

Sam bends and folds his arms as if there were no bones inside of them and keeps his eyes on the ground with intention. The kid makes it look so easy. With at most five percent body fat, Dean's old clothes hang from his bony something of a body like curtains, worn and thin. There's a certain temptation to pick the popcorn back up when Sam bends forward to touch his toes. Dean bites his lip at the sight of palms which press to the floor. Flat. Effortless. Sam's mouth smirks next to his knees.

The kid moves like a dancer sometimes. Like a ballerina, but too tall to en pointe without knocking his head on doorframes. Sam is sixteen and something (three months, two weeks, six days, twenty-one hours) and more than Dean deserves. That shaggy hair falls into a set of eyes, is tugged behind a ear, discarded, deemed unimportant. Just like Dean's old sweatpants. Sam is commando underneath since that shower two hours ago. It's definitely warm enough in the room to not be freezing but Dean gets goosebumps nevertheless.

Dean's favorite set of limbs slide back into place right next to him on the sofa, one knee tucked up. It's okay, Dad's not home, only the TV and Dean's eyes he reveals himself to. It's so casual it would be boring with anyone but Sam. It _is_ Sam though, so Dean feels his chest pulling tight at the closure of longlongerlongest fingers around the world's probably most beautiful dick. Definitely the most beautiful dick (besides his own) Dean's ever seen. The one. The only.

Dean relaxes back against the couch and watches his brother caressing himself to fullness. Indi is forgotten. Dean might have seen both of them for a million times now but as long as Dean's brain is still more or less working (or even beyond that), there is no way in Hell he would choose anything over his Sammy.

It's a short movie - teenager enthusiasm. Sam's cheeks beam slightly pinker than before in the flickering lights of the TV which as well reflect on the wet tip of his just as pink dick. A firm squeeze forces out a first pearl of precome. Like dew on a flower petal. Dean licks his lips because he is not gonna be the one tasting it.

"Well? C'mon," he teases. He doesn't have to but he knows it ratchets Sam up even more. The more the better. "Or were your eyes bigger than your belly?"

One small glance is all he gets for his efforts. But that's okay. Dean knows how his little brother looks in concentration - and this is _hidden_ concentration. Way more work. Soft child-brother trying to look like a man, like _no big deal, Dean_. Those pretty fingers drift up and down again, rest at the base.

And then, Sam bends.

Dean's jaw drops with every inch Sam lowers his upper body - down, down, down. Seconds never were that long. Eyes disappear in favor of crown of hair, flat belly suddenly in deep rolls. Dean can see those pursed lips though.

And Sam _can_.

A few more inches, too.

Dean forgets how to breathe.

Little Sam unfolds again like a crumbled napkin, like a rose, lashes dragging up and away, eyes wetter with victory and tongue wetter with ohjesuschrist-

"See?" Dean hears. "I told you."

Oh, Dean _does_ see.

The problem is, Dean hasn't seen _enough_.

All it takes are fever-kisses and too much of shared drool, a cluster of praiseful words from Sam's (probably, hopefully, oh please God, please) favorite mouth. Sam's head flushes for real then, firetruck-red right in between Dean's slippery palms, and that pretty head shakes _no, Dean, come on, it was just a stupid bet_. It doesn't exactly matter though that Sam was indeed the one who won this bet, because Dean wants _more_. Dean always seems to get what Dean wants as long as it's about Sam. Almost ironic. (Don't think it don't dream it or it will be gone.)

Legs for miles and they stumble even though the clutch of brother-hands provides stability. Sam is on what is his own bed as long as Dad is around (and not a single second longer), eyes small in the darkness and even smaller in the hard light of a busted bedside lamp. Dean mutters some nonsense about candles he doesn't understand himself, just needs that mouth back on that dick, matching sets of pink Dean has been in love with for so long he'd have forgotten the actual time and date if it wasn't _Sam_ this was about.

"Do it again, please, pleasepleaseplease, c'mon." He urges, babbles, on his belly and close up between his boy's legs. He looks like a fool, feels like one, but don't they say fortune favors those?

Sam makes one of his Dean-sounds, the "why do I even bother trying"-sigh, the same he makes in the presence of a dog he can't afford to smuggle underneath Dad's nose. Things Sam wants but knows he shouldn't want. Dean is one of those things.

Dean is making Sam soft. Soft and weird and doe-eyed. Shaking and trembling and distracted. Dean is the tiny voice begging for more, the one tugging and cooing and _oh please, Sammy, squeeze around my dick again, yeah, just like that, oh baby_. Dean was the one forcing him open on words first, tongue and fingers and dick later, the last to see him breathing each night. Dean is Sam's shadow, his plasma, his oxygen. Sammy said oxygen is one of the most aggressive chemicals - it takes and takes and takes. Yes. That is Dean. And Sammy needs his air.

Sam folds his body again, this time on his back, thighs pried open and back of knees more than a little damp. There comes an animal sound from Dean (who is he trying to fool anyway) when lips wrap around cockhead, both candy and pretty and Sam's, and Sam shudders because Dean shudders. Sam looks up and at him with silent request of approval. Yeah. "Get it all in there," Dean groans. He almost doesn't mean it, doesn't believe it, but Sam is a hard worker and in love with Dean (they say it to each other underneath blankets or stars). "Fuck, _Sammy_." And Dean loves. Oh, he loves.

His little rubber boy-toy bends nice and easy under his hands, just like it always does. They get Sam's mouth halfway down his own dick and Dean's drools through both sweatpants and bedsheets. Dean's cheek is making love to both Sam's own and Sam's thigh. It's all so close, so very unnatural and sick that Dean has tears in his eyes before he knows. Art; that's the word. His little brother is a damn piece of _art_ and still flinches at the hungry drag of an unworthy tongue. Dean barely fucked the pink out of his ass today - Sam has a big game tomorrow and Dean is reasonable (but secretly wonders if there is any possibility to make Sam limp for the next handful of days without getting his face smashed for it). A small whimper when the licks keep coming. Dean is almost sorry.

"How's it feel?" He presses the words between wrinkles of asshole and not wanting to stop what he is witnessing, but he _has_ to know. This is sick. Dean _lives_ for sickness - was born and raised and proud in it.

Shameless plop of a noise, both dick and lips so obviously worked. Dean stares at both; does it cross-eyed. "It's weird," Sam mutters.

"Looks so fucking hot."

Scrounged up nose. "Freak."

"Keep goin', sweetheart." It's not a beg as long as Dean says so. (He could _spit_ words and Sam would still follow.) "God yeah," he breathes, presses a thumb where he made it slippery. He peppers kisses on Sam's obscenely stretched lips, at least over the parts he can reach. It's enough to send him aching.

Sam's fingers are guided to where Dean wants them. Dean's heart is thrumming hard and Sam's thighs start to quiver for real now. Own dick in his mouth, own finger in his ass. Nobody else in this world is allowed to be where Dean goes - except Sam.

Born and raised and proud. Born and raised and proud. It's a contagious thing.

Dean leaves raw red on skin with first signs of stubble, makes it wet with kisses and lets his lashes flutter against Sam's nose and then his balls, just because it's so conveniently close and just because he _can_. On the next watchful sight, Sam looks positively exhausted.

"Fuck," Dean breathes. He traces his thumb over the bulge in Sam's cheek. It's usually his to have. Just like his old tees, Sam wears it so much better.

Freaky Friday. It should become a damn tradition in this household. Well... _their_ household. Secret, secretsecret fraternity. Literally. Dean humps the mattress. This is _Sam's_ show.

Dizziness and summer heat take over. Maybe Dean's soft for Sam as well.

"Think you can get yourself off like that? In your mouth?"

Girlboybrother lashes open like curtains and Dean could drown behind them.

A lovely pain tugs one corner of his mouth heavenwards. There is sweat running down his temple. He feels it, knows Sam can see it.

"If you can, imma let you do that thing with the thing you were askin' about."

Nothing better than lighting Sam up. There are fires Dean doesn't want to outrun.


End file.
